The Road to Hell
by arts and letters
Summary: In the aftermath of the events at Appledore, an ugly confrontation may turn out to be the perfect opportunity for long-needed closure between the Holmes brothers.
1. The Conversation

A/N: The title of this work comes from the saying, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Although there are only a few minor season 3 spoilers, this is set during His Last Vow, after the confrontation in 221B with Mycroft/Anderson/CAM. Despite how it starts out, this story is going to be focused on the Mycroft-Sherlock relationship.

* * *

John had only just paid his cab fare and stepped out onto the pavement when a black car with tinted windows pulled up beside him. To his intense dismay, the window rolled down to reveal Mycroft's assistant busily tapping away on her mobile phone.

Without bothering to make eye contact, she said, "Mr. Holmes has requested your presence."

There were a lot of things John wanted to say in response, like

_I do have a life outside of the Holmes brothers_

or

_Fuck off_

But instead he got in the car without a word and waited silently as he was carried through the streets of London, until they stopped in front of a building—a building that looked suspiciously like someone's home.

No, this couldn't be—but still, John had to ask.

"Does Mycroft live here?"

Without even acknowledging the question, or looking up from her phone, she said, "You can go inside now."

Knowing better than to expect anything more than that, John stepped out of the car without a word and made his way to the front door.

Before he even had a chance to knock, the door opened, and he found himself face to face with an uncharacteristically weary-looking Mycroft Holmes.

"John, how good of you to come."

"Did I have a choice?"

Mycroft gave a tight smile.

"All the same, I appreciate your making the time to see me. I have some very important matters we must discuss regarding my brother. "

"I'm not spying on him for you."

"I assure you, that is not what I have in mind."

Mycroft paused for a moment, before asking, with clearly forced politeness, "Would you care for some tea or biscuits before we begin?"

"No, thanks. I'd rather just get—"

John made a vague gesture with his hand

"Whatever this is—over with."

"As you wish."

Without further delay, Mycroft led him into a sitting room.

"Please, have a seat."

Once they were settled into their respective places, Mycroft began.

"I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the potential severity of this latest development."

"You mean the drugs? Or Magnuss—"

"Yes, the 'drugs,' as you so succinctly put it."

"Um, yeah, a bit concerning that."

Mycroft looked at John with the kind of expression that might be directed at a young child who had just said something particularly stupid or self evident.

"You are most fortunate not to have known Sherlock when he was caught up in the throes of his addiction. I assure you, if you had, you would be more than a little concerned."

"Fair enough." John hesitated, before adding, "But I don't really know what more we can do about it."

"Nor do I, which is of course why I asked you to join me here. I'm sure, between the two of us—"

"No—just, stop there. Sherlock is my best friend, but I can't be his around-the-clock minder. I have a job, and a wife who's about to have a baby."

John realized his temper was starting to get away from him, so he took a steadying breath, before continuing, with a more even tone.

"Look, you're his brother, and apparently you run this whole bloody country. I'm sure you can find a way to handle this."

"Believe me, John, if I thought Sherlock would respond positively to my direct interventions, I would be back at Baker Street this very moment rather than having this tedious conversation with you."

Reading the anger in John's expression, Mycroft hastily added, "No offense intended."

Then he continued, "But as you already witnessed, that course of action has not been particularly fruitful."

"You know, maybe if you went over there and talked things out, rather than getting people to spy on him and search through his things—"

"As reasonable as that course of action may seem, there is more to this situation than you could possibly know."

At John's challenging look, Mycroft elaborated.

"There was a time when I made a grave error in regards to my brother, and ever after he has refused to seek or accept my aid in any direct capacity."

"Have you tried apologizing?"

"I'm afraid that a few words of contrition will not be enough to resolve this situation. In fact, I believe the damage is irreparable. Sherlock has made it quite clear that he is unwilling to forgive me for this particular failure."

Mycroft paused, before adding, "And frankly, I can't find it in myself to blame him."

Given Mycroft's usual policy of nondisclosure, John did not expect further elaborations to be forthcoming, so he was more than a little surprised when Mycroft continued.

"You might find this difficult to believe, but there was a time when Sherlock and I were quite close—although that time has long since passed."

"I suppose it won't surprise you to know that we did not get on very well with other children. In that way, Sherlock and I were very isolated. I believe that isolation was damaging to him in ways that I couldn't comprehend, then and even now."

"It pained me to see him hurt by such petty scorn from those other children who were inferior to him in every possible way. I thought that I could protect him from future suffering by encouraging him to disregard caring and sentiment in the same way that I had learned to do, but over the years, I have come to question the wisdom of my actions. Still, I was but a child myself, and I did not see the ways in which he was damaged by our seclusion, nor how my actions amplified his isolation."

"Then again, we always have been so different. Whereas I am driven by practicality and reason, Sherlock is frequently controlled by the whims of his heart—although he often does not believe that to be the case. And yet, this was the boy who once dreamed of being a pirate."

Mycroft smiled, indulgently.

"Now, for my part, I was never prone to such flights of fancy. I did not have dreams. I made plans, although often quite ambition ones. Parliament, prime minister—at my most imaginative, maybe Secretary General of the United Nations."

Under his breath, John muttered, "No surprise there."

"Yes, well, I must admit that there were times where I tried to guide Sherlock towards what I considered to be more pragmatic—and respectable—career paths, but even at in those early days, my sway over my younger brother was very limited. And then there was—"

Mycroft paused for a moment, before asking John directly, "I don't suppose my brother has ever told you about _Redbeard_?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"Trust me, this is not a conversation that would slip your mind had you already had it. But I think, for the moment, it is best if I leave that particular incident up to Sherlock to reveal—or not—as he might choose."

His interest now piqued, John could barely restrain himself from inquiring further into this whole "Redbeard" business—especially in light of all that Mycroft had already chosen to reveal—but ultimately, he held back, afraid that if he pushed too hard, Mycroft might withdraw completely. So instead he stayed quiet.

It did not take long for Mycroft to return to his original train of thoughts.

"Let us leave it at this: the series of events involving Redbeard revealed to me beyond a shadow of a doubt the vast difference between the inner life of my brother and me. I realized there is a depth to his emotions that I couldn't possibly begin to understand. Although neither of us spoke of it at the time, I believe that was the moment when he first started drifting away from me."

"But darker days were yet to come. Because then—naturally—I went away for school. At the time, I saw it as the next, logical step in my education. However, to Sherlock, it was the worst kind of betrayal.

John couldn't help but watch the different emotions that played out on Mycroft's face as he spoke. He thought that he could read a certain wistfulness—maybe even sadness—in Mycroft's expression. There was something unnerving about seeing the other man appear so human, vulnerable, even.

"That was the first significant rift in our relationship, one of many unforgivable transgressions that I have since committed. In his eyes, at least."

"I know very little of what he got up to in those intervening years. I was away for much of that time, and even when I did return to visit, he was a closed book to me. Whatever connection we once shared had been permanently—irrevocably—extinguished."

"What I do know is that at some point during this period, Sherlock began his descent into addiction. I imagine it started innocently enough—a simple matter of youthful experimentation. Curiosity. Boredom. But my brother is not known for his impulse control—"

John let out a quiet, wry chuckle at Mycroft's understatement.

Mycroft initially looked startled—as if he had almost forgotten John's presence—although he quickly returned to a neutral expression, nodding his head in acknowledgment before continuing.

"Yes, not a particularly difficult deduction to make. And yet, I gather you found the thought of Sherlock Holmes as an addict to be incomprehensible when you first met him. It's certainly not a conclusion that I can fault you for coming to. After all, why would a man such as my brother—who values the function of his brain above all else—poison the part of himself that he treasures the most?"

"That is a question I have spent many sleepless nights seeking an answer to. I hoped, maybe, if only I understood, I could finally find out how to save him. If only I knew what drove him to destruction over and over again—because there were so many times when we nearly lost him. There were nights that I watched him sleep and felt my stomach lurch with every long pause between his breaths. Even now, I can still remember, in vivid detail—"

In that moment, Mycroft's voice falters, and he scrubs his face with his hand as if trying to erase the sadness from the lines of his face.

"Well, let's leave it at this: You were not the first person to witness the death of Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft paused, gathered his thoughts, and then looked at John directly, and asked, "Have you ever 'done' drugs, John?"

"Me? Um, well—"

"Come now, no need to be demure. It's not as if I'll be recording this information in your personnel file."

"Wait, I have a personnel file?"

Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard John's questions.

"But, so as not to make you uncomfortable, let's just leave it at this. There are many people, all of them assuredly far less gifted and intelligent than my brother, who dabble in this or that without losing themselves completely, never coming close to the depths that Sherlock reached in a span of a few, short, very dark years."

"After all, even I enjoy the occasional glass of wine, maybe a cigarette after a nice meal. What I cannot possibly comprehend is how any substance could be worth the lengths that he went to."

"Tell me, John, do you have any wisdom to share that might resolve this apparent paradox? You are a medical professional, after all."

John was so caught off guard by Mycroft's direct inquiry that all he could do was mutely shake his head, although even if he had been less taken aback, he likely wouldn't have been able to provide a more substantial answer.

Mycroft looked oddly deflated at John's response—or lack thereof—as if there had been some part of him that thought John might actually be able to offer some kind of clarity.

"Yes, well, I must confess that I was so desperate to understand that I once even tried the drugs myself."

John couldn't help his expression of shock, although he quickly tried to cover it up. However, Mycroft seemed undeterred.

"That really shouldn't be so surprising, now should it? You must know that I would do anything—absolutely anything—to keep my brother safe. And, of course, it's not as if I was 'shooting up' in a dark alley. It was done under perfectly scientific and sanitary conditions."

Clearly John's skepticism must have shown on his face, because Mycroft followed up with—

"Yes, I can see how it might seem foolish in retrospect. I hoped that it would enlighten me—that if only I understood his motivations, I could find a way to save him. But all I learned from that experience is that my brother and I are very, very different people. And I suppose I didn't need to dabble in recreational drug use to make that particular deduction."

Without thinking, John interrupted.

"People aren't puzzles. Even if you could understand Sherlock's motivations, it's not like you could just snap your fingers and make him sober up."

"You are, of course, quite correct in your assessment. I suppose at the point where I did my little 'experimentation' I was so desperate to find a solution that I was willing to try anything if it had even the slightest chance of helping him."

Mycroft paused again, gathered his thoughts, and then went on.

"While Sherlock is prone to hyperbole, it is true that I have a rather more—shall we say, elevated?—position in the British government than I may have initially indicated to you. Even still, with all of the considerable resources at my disposal, I was unable to protect Sherlock from his addiction and from himself, because make no mistake, Sherlock always has been his own worst enemy, as much as it pains me to acknowledge that fact. Even with all of the many criminal masterminds he has come up against, the greatest threat has always come from within."

"This, too, should not come as a revelation to you. After all, within 48 hours of first making his acquaintance, you shot a man to prevent my brother from voluntarily swallowing poison. And all for what? Not to solve a case, not to save a life—but because of boredom. A drive to be right. The need for stimulation."

"No matter how long he stays away from drugs, my brother will always be an addict. It's the only way he knows how to be."

John interjected again.

"You know, there are treatments available, places to go, even medications—"

"Trust me when I say that there is no avenue that I haven't explored, no expert that I haven't consulted, no cost that I have spared, in my search to find a cure for my brother's affliction."

"I sent him to the most expensive rehabs that money could afford—in London, the continent, even America. I signed him up for outpatient therapy and escorted him there myself. For awhile, I even moved him in to live with me. You can imagine what that must have been like."

John involuntarily grimaced at that prospect.

"But I didn't stop there. I had my 'people' track down every drug dealer in a 30 mile radius and pull them off the streets. Still, he always seemed to find another avenue to replenish his supply. I eventually hired guards to keep watch—but he always got away."

"I tried anything and everything. Left no stone unturned. And yet, none of it worked."

Mycroft's entire body seemed to slump over—subtly, yet unmistakably—as if he were reliving that terrible, painful moment of defeat.

"So I let him go. I watched him destroy himself. I looked on as he spiraled further and further into addiction. I witnessed my brilliant younger brother become a hollow, empty shell. With every passing day, I felt a part of myself die too. Then, finally, when he came to me again, asking for help, I—"

Mycroft faltered for a moment—looked down at the floor—before finding the words.

"I turned him away."

John couldn't help but flinch at Mycroft's confession.

"Yes, in retrospect, it is so easy to see the foolishness of that decision. But at the time, we had already been through this countless times, and I thought that, maybe, if I left him to do it on his own, he would finally learn. So I turned him away—and he left."

The expression on Mycroft's face can only be described as haunted, and for one horrible moment, John wondered if the normally stoic man might actually lose his composure completely. But after a brief pause, Mycroft seemed to regain control.

"They found him—half frozen to death—on the bank of the Thames the next morning. He was revived and rushed to the hospital, released a few days later, and he's been clean ever since."

"In a way, I suppose it worked. After all, he survived in one piece and has gone on to create a relatively happy and successful life for himself. It is as good an outcome as I could ever have hoped for."

"And yet, this victory did not come without a price. Sherlock has never forgiven me for that lapse in judgment, and I can't find it in myself to fault him for his anger. I thought I was doing what I had to in order to save him, but now I realize that was the night when I lost him forever."

"So you see, Sherlock will not accept help from me. But you—he would never turn you away."

John started to object. "I don't know about that—"

"I do."

"Even if that's true—and I'm not saying it is—what makes you think I'll be able to help him? If all your methods failed—"

"You are too modest, Dr. Watson. Here you are—a soldier and a doctor. A veteran of war. A good man, and a brave man."

John opened his mouth to protest again, but Mycroft held up a hand to stop him from speaking.

"More to the point, I know with absolute certainty that you are the one person Sherlock trusts completely—dare I say, the only person he has learned to love fully and without reservation. This makes you uniquely suited to offer such aid, and, as much as I wish this weren't so, you are certainly in a far better position than I ever will be to help him."

"I know it is unfair to ask so much of you, but I find myself in this position nonetheless. I would gladly provide you with wealth or prestige in exchange for your assurances on this matter, but I know you will not accept, so I will not offend you by offering. Instead, I am relying on your loyalty, compassion, and affection for my younger brother. For all his many faults, I know that you care for him deeply."

Mycroft paused and averted his gaze, staring off into the distance.

"John, if ever there is a time when he comes to you for help—no matter how inconvenient the timing, no matter how difficult or infuriating he may be—you must not turn him away."

Mycroft sighed deeply, before making his final plea.

"Please, for Sherlock, learn from my mistake."

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first installment of this story! I certainly enjoyed writing it. I will definitely be continuing this story arc. There will be at least one more chapter that involves a confrontation between Sherlock and Mycroft, set in the season 3 timeline. I'm also going to be posting a work in this same universe that will include "flashback" vignettes of the days of Sherlock's addiction. I've started bits and pieces of both these continuations, but it may be a while before I get anything posted.

In the meantime, if you enjoyed this story, I have a couple more Sherlock and Mycroft-centric fan fics that you might want to check out (Go Fish, Atonement, Ch 1 of Hamish). And if you have a few spare moments and are so inclined, please leave a comment. Getting feedback on my writing makes my day :)


	2. The Confrontation

A/N: This is still set during HLV, and there are major spoilers for later events in that episode. As referenced in the summary, this takes place immediately post-Appledore.

* * *

The younger Holmes brother sat quietly in one of the straight-backed chairs that his elder brother always seemed to favor.

_How typical that Mycroft would want all of his "guests" to be as stilted and uncomfortable as he is._

Unconsciously, Sherlock beat out a rhythm with his fingers on the top of Mycroft's mahogany desk—_expensive and pretentious, just like Mycroft_—_can a desk even be pretentious? Well, if it belongs to Mycroft it certainly can._

Sherlock could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest—the adrenaline had not yet faded completely—every time he closes his eyes, it all comes flooding back—the helicopter, loud and angry in the sky, everywhere the menacing red of the lasers, the snipers in black—Mycroft shouting, desperately—the feel of the gun, so cold and heavy in his hand, and then the moment—_that moment—_when he did what had to be done—knowing that it would change everything—but he had no other choice—for Mary, for John—for them he would have done anything—and that was what gave him the strength to put his finger on the trigger and—

A loud boom reverberated through the office—lost as he was in his thoughts, Sherlock was caught unaware, jumped to his feet, turned around, and—

Framed in the doorway, looking as angry as he'd ever been, stood Mycroft, who—in his fury—had entered the room and slammed the door shut with every ounce of his strength.

The panic that had gripped Sherlock moments ago now turned into anger, which was comforting in its own way—anger is always better than fear.

Clearly Mycroft thought so as well.

"Sherlock, of all your short-sighted, impulsive, self-destructive kamikaze missions—"

Mycroft paused for a moment, realized he was shouting, and lowered his voice slightly.

"To shoot the most powerful business mogul in all of Europe, in full view of fifty agents, on the grounds of hisestate, in front of _me_—you were lucky to make it out of there alive. If you were hell bent on completing a suicide mission, then bravo. You've really outdone yourself this time."

As Mycroft launched his angry tirade, Sherlock schooled his features into an intentionally neutral expression. His voice was even but filled with disdain as he shot back—

"Yes, and I suppose you'll be throwing me to the wolves any moment now. Don't worry,_ brother_—" Sherlock spat out the word_— _"you can simply pass this off as the latest transgression of your useless, junkie sibling. How terrible it must be for you! What an embarrassment to have someone like me—"

Mycroft tried to break in, his voice lower, but still hard.

"Sherlock—"

"No, whatever else you're going to say, I don't want to hear it. Do whatever you want with me—I don't care. I did what I had to do to protect Mary and John. Do you want to know why?"

Sherlock didn't wait for an answer.

"Because I _care _about them. There, I admitted it! I care about someone other than myself. Would you like to know what that feels like Mycroft?"

"I—"

"It feels terrible. It's painful. Sometimes I wish I could erase the feelings, forget what it means to care—but I won't do that. You know why? Because that would turn me into _you._"

Sherlock turned around so that his expression was hidden and asked, quietly, "Do you remember what The Woman said?"

"As I recall, she said a great many things."

"Moriarty—he called you the _Iceman._ Very apt, don't you think? He always did have a way with words."

Mycroft didn't reply immediately, but when he did finally speak, his words were strained.

"Sherlock, I—I worry about you endlessly, day and night. There are times when I do wish that I could lock you away forever, to protect you from those who want to do you harm. Most often, I just wish that I could protect you from yourself. I will never understand what it is that drives you to such extremes of self destruction—"

Sherlock turned around again and flung his arms up into the air.

"Yes, I'm an addict! The whole country knows that now, but it certainly isn't news to you, is it? I'm a junkie, who would rather stare down the barrel of a gun than waste away in the throes of boredom and mediocrity. But this—this had nothing to do with that. I did this to protect John and Mary."

Sherlock began pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly with his hands, his anger unabated.

"I know that this is impossible for you to understand, Mycroft, but this is what it means to care about someone else. How could I walk away without doing everything in my power to protect Mary? Mary, who is about to have a baby—with John—my best friend. I would travel to the ends of the earth for them if it meant keeping them safe."

Mycroft sank down wearily into a nearby chair.

"If only you had come to me, if only you had told me what you planned to do—rather than drugging the entire family, absconding with my laptop, and disappearing. I could have helped—"

At that word, Sherlock stopped his manic pacing and wheeled around to stare at Mycroft.

"How dare you—when the last time—the one time I needed—I _begged_ for you to help me, and you—you threw me out. And the look, that look on your face—of pity and disgust. After that night, why would I ever come to _you_ for help—when you—you left me for dead."

Now Mycroft was back on his feet.

"How can you think—all I ever wanted—"

"Oh, I know what you wanted, Mycroft. You wanted me to be someone else. Someone _respectable_. Honorable, like you. Someone who wouldn't bring shame to this family. You wanted me to disappear and leave you in peace—"

"No, I never wanted—never dreamed—"

Sherlock shouted, "You left me for dead!"

Then he immediately lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, "I nearly died."

Sherlock stopped, swallowed hard, grabbed the back of the chair he had previously been sitting on, his knuckles white. His voice dropped even lower, as he choked out—

"I _wanted_ to die. When you turned me away, after all those years, when I was finally ready, I came to you, I _trusted _you—and you turned me away."

"I know, Sherlock—and I'm sor—"

Before Mycroft could even finish those words—_I'm sorry—_Sherlock broke in.

"But of course, why would I have expected anything else from the man who's told me my whole life, _caring is not an advantage_—"

"Sherlock, how can you think—you must know—I have cared—I always will care—about you deeply. Blinded as you are by anger and resentment, I would think even you might be able to see that. And yet, did my caring save you?"

"Maybe it would have, if you had shown me!"

"What other reason would I have for throwing away thousands of pounds to send you to the best rehabilitation centers in the UK? In the world?"

"Is that what this is about? The money? Fine, let me write you a check—"

Mycroft slammed his fist down heavily on the desk, hard enough to hurt, although he showed no sign of feeling any pain.

"Damn it, Sherlock! I don't care about the money. I care about _you_."

"Then why couldn't you just show it!"

"What else would you have had me do? What more could you possibly have wanted from me?"

"I don't—It doesn't matter anymore."

"It seems to matter a great deal."

When Sherlock gave no further response, Mycroft continued.

"Sherlock, I did everything in my power—everything that I could think of—to help you heal. And even after—in the hospital—I didn't leave your side for days while you were unconscious."

"But you were gone the minute I was awake."

"You were angry. You said you wanted me gone."

"But you weren't."

"I wasn't what?"

"Angry. This, this is the first time that you have ever gotten angry with me for anything."

"Really, Sherlock? Because I seem to remember a number of tiffs—"

"I'm not talking about our little spats. I'm talking about_ real_ anger. The kind of anger you feel when someone you love does something that upsets you—that hurts you. The kind of anger that means you care."

Sherlock considered his next words carefully.

"You were always there—but far away. You were more like a parent or a school teacher than a brother. You never treated me as an equal. You told me what to do and how to be. You even hired guards to keep tabs on me—"

"I was doing what I could to protect you."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn't need a protector? Maybe I needed my brother?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to fire back, but then he stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again to say, "Sherlock, I'm—"

Sherlock started to protest, but Mycroft got out the words first.

"No, listen to me, please. Because I should have said this all those years ago."

Mycroft waited, to make sure Sherlock wouldn't interrupt, and then he went on.

"It's not in my nature—in either of our natures, really—to put this into words, but I care about you as much as it is possible to care about another person. You're my brother, and I have loved you from the moment you came into this world."

"I told Mummy—I said to her before you were born—give me a brother. And she did. She gave me you. And I swore to myself that I would always love and protect you. No matter what. I would be the older brother that you needed—and deserved."

Mycroft's shoulders slumped in defeat..

"And somehow, despite all my best efforts—despite my intellect and all the power at my disposal—I failed. And for that I'm sorry."

Sherlock expression was still filled with contempt, but Mycroft went on anyway.

"You may choose not to believe it, but truly, I am sorry for all the ways that I have failed you. I'm sorry that I wasn't there in the way that you needed me to be—that I couldn't be the person you needed me to be—when you needed me the most. I'm sorry that I ever gave you any reason to doubt the love that I have always had for you. Most of all, I'm sorry that the one time you came to me for help, I turned you away. Please, believe me when I say that I have no greater regret than that."

Mycroft paused to see if Sherlock had anything to say, but when he got no response, he continued.

"As much as I wish it were otherwise, there is nothing I can do to change the past. I made a great many mistakes, especially in regards to you, but all I can do is be here now. And I am here. Together, we can fix this. I'll do whatever it takes—"

It had looked for a moment like Sherlock had softened, but just as quickly his features and his voice turned hard again.

"Piss off, Mycroft. Go lavish some of your 'caring' on another victim. I don't need any more of your _favors. _"

With swift strides, Sherlock made his way to the door. A moment later, he had it partway open, but before he could make his dramatic exit, Mycroft was beside him and slammed the door closed once again.

Sherlock was so caught off guard by the deviation from Mycroft's usually reserved demeanor that all he could do for a moment was stare at his brother, who took advantage of his silence to say—

"No."

"No? What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, no, I'm not letting you do this. I'm not letting you storm out of here so that you can compound this damage even further."

"What makes you think you can stop me?"

"As you are well aware, I have an entire security detail at my command—"

"So you're going to unleash your guard dogs on me?"

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

"No, of course not. And I have no doubt that if we came to blows, you could make short work of my paltry defenses. As you know, hand-to-hand combat has never been my forte."

Mycroft smiled, wryly, before his expression turned serious once more.

"I'm giving you a choice. Stay here, and we'll find a way to deal with this together."

Mycroft stepped away from the door, just barely.

"Or you can storm out of here and sew your own seeds of destruction. The choice is yours. But I will not let you go willingly. The gravest mistake I ever made was turning you away when you came to me for help, and that is not a mistake I am prepared to make again."

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, his voice quiet but resentful.

"I'm not asking you for help."

Mycroft smiled again, but this time there was only sadness in his expression.

"I know, and it would be foolish of me to expect anything else. But you're my brother, and despite what you may believe, I care for you deeply, which is why I will not let you court disaster without doing everything in my power to prevent it."

"A little late for that, seeing as I already committed murder in front of half of London's police force."

Mycroft shrugged. "Yes, well, what's done is done."

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

When Sherlock seemed disinclined to say anything further—or move—Mycroft asked, as nonchalantly as possible, "So, what will you do?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. And then closed it again. He looked at Mycroft, took in his expression, tried to measure his sincerity. Then, with an easy but slightly amplified voice, he called out—

"Anthea, could you bring us some tea?"

Mycroft started to say, "Anthea is not some servant that I keep—"

But before he could finish, Anthea opened the door.

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Some biscuits would be lovely."

She nodded, and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Once she had exited the room, Mycroft declared, "Okay, down to business then."

But Sherlock had other plans.

"Surely this can wait until after tea? Although I suggest you leave all the biscuits for me. After all, you've made such great progress with your weight. It would be a shame to undue all your hard work."

"I'll have you know that I'm as fit as ever."

"Yes, well, that's not really saying much, now is it?"

Sherlock's words were biting, but his tone less so, and his voice was even lighter when he said, "How about a round of Scrabble? Or are you concerned that old age has diminished your once formidable—but still vastly inferior—vocabulary?"

"My command of the English language is as sharp as it has ever been. And, as you well know, I have bested you in exactly seventy-two percent of our previous matches."

"What about your command of Serbian? Or Latin, for old times sake?"

"Any language, any day."

"Prove it."

"Really, Sherlock—"

"Or we could always play deductions. You might be interested to hear what conclusions I've drawn regarding Anthea's perfume and clothing choices—"

Mycroft held up his hands in surrender. "I suppose I can spare a few moments for a round of Scrabble. But only the one."

"Excellent."

Sherlock sat down at the oversized chair behind Mycroft's desk, and gestured gallantly to the opposite seat. With a theatrical expression of disapproval and a put-upon sigh, Mycroft sat down in the offered chair.

A few minutes later, Anthea returned with tea, set it down on a side table, and exited without a word.

Although she made sure that neither of them could see, Anthea couldn't help but smile to herself at the sight of the Holmes brothers, reunited again, with their easy banter and a bond of caring that neither liked to acknowledge but was no less real for its silence.

* * *

A/N Awww, aren't they so cute when they stop being angry? I hope this ending isn't too sappy. I just wanted to give our boys a happy ending for once. They've been through so much.

I'm marking this as completed for now, although there's a good chance I will add more chapters to this story at a later date. However, for now, I want to focus on the companion to this piece, tentatively titled, "The Descent" which will be a multi-chapter work showing vignettes from the early days of Sherlock's drug use, and hopefully fill out some more of the backstory that I've referenced in this story. I've already started writing it, but I'm not sure when I'll get it posted.

Thanks to everyone who left feedback on the first chapter. You're kind words really helped encourage me to move forward with this installment. I hope you'll stick with the continuation of this tale, and if you have a few moments, I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter :)


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